Page 88 of The Beautiful Collision
thirty-two
MAYA
The night airhits me like a slap of sobriety, shocking the warmth of the bar from my skin. The cold should feel cleansing, but instead it just makes everything sharper—the ache in my chest, the humiliation burning in my cheeks, the way my hands shake as I hold my phone.
This isn’t like the other night when I passed out at that club, drunk and pathetic, like some cliché of a broken girl. No, tonight, the few drinks in my system have been incinerated by something far more potent: pure, crystalline rage that leaves my mind terrifyingly clear.
A bet.
The words keep echoing in my head, Rook’s drunken voice on repeat.
Did she say the magic words yet?
Like I’m some achievement to unlock in a video game. Like everything we shared—every vulnerable moment, every time I let my guard down—was just him grinding for experience points. For a second, I think back to my bet with the girls, and my mind tries to rationalize it and hold onto hope.
Butno.
Fuckthat.
The minute it became real, I droppedmybet, but it looks like Maine kept on going. And as soon as I said ‘I need you’ he considered it mission accomplished, and he went back to being the sullen asshole he’d been when I’d moved in, when we’d been fighting over dirty dishes and laundry.
My phone buzzes in my hand, and Sophie’s face lights up the screen. I stare at it for a moment and consider letting it go to voicemail, but even in my rage I know I can’t be a bitch to her again. I upset her at the club and then landed on my face. We’ve made up since, but screening a call from her wouldn’t be great.
So I answer.
“Yeah?” I say, trying to fight the tremble in my voice.
“Maya, what happened? I saw you leave and?—“
“I’m fine,” I cut her off, my voice coming out clipped and cold. “I’m going home.”
“But—“
“Sophie, I said I’m fine,” I sigh. “Please, I just need space.”
I end the call before she can deploy her particular brand of gentle persistence. This time, I don’t want comfort. I don’t want someone to hold my hair back while I cry and vomit. I want to rage. I want to scream. I want to find hisfuckinghockey stick and snap it in half.
I want to cut him off—cut him out—like I have my family.
Heavy footsteps pound on the pavement behind me, and I don’t need to turn around to know it’s him. I can feel his presence like a change in barometric pressure. God, I hate that my body still responds to his proximity with that familiar feeling in my stomach.
“Maya!” His voice cracks on my name. “Just let me explain.”
I don’t stop walking. Because fuck him. Let him chase me. Let him feel what it’s like to reach for something that keeps slipping away. Like when I’d waited for him to come home, ready to offermy heart, and he’d walked right by me without even a glance in my direction.
“Maya, fuck, please just—would you stop for one second?”
I reach the relative isolation of a streetlight a block from O’Neil’s, its orange glow sputtering like it’s having its own crisis. Fine. If he wants to do this, we’ll do this. I turn around and wait, a statue carved from ice and fury, as he skids to a halt in front of me.
He looks wrecked. Hair sticking up in all directions from where he’s been running his hands through it, chest heaving, those gray eyes wide and desperate. Good. I want him to hurt. I want him to feel even a fraction of what I’m feeling right now.
“I can explain,” he starts, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. “The bet—fuck, it sounds so bad, but it wasn’t—I mean, it started that way, but?—“
He’s scrambling, and it would be pathetic if it weren’t so insulting.
“When you first moved in, Rook was giving me shit about you getting in my head, and I just—“ he runs his hand through his hair. “—I guess my pride was stung. I couldn’t back down. You know how they are, how I am with them. It’s all just stupid bravado and?—“
“So you bet you could, what, fuck me?” I scoff. “You ticked that box easily enough, money in your pocket, but you didn’t have to string me along after that…”
